I don't always understand what F. Scott Fitzgerald is on about; he had an airy way with words. And I'm not entirely sure about the well-forgotten dreams being carried from age to age, here, but still, this is good stuff (from, of course, The Great Gatsby)
Thirty -- the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning brief-case of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.
So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.